Before Sense
by KellyTyler521
Summary: Incomplete, but it's a few months before either Holli or Sara showed up and the show actually started.
1. Chapter 1

FYI: I own no one and nothing in this story. I'm not even really sure I own my main character, but I made her up, and you can't have her.  
  
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"Excuse me," I say to a blonde woman standing in front of the front desk of the Las Vegas Crime Lab. "Hi, I'm Kira Tyler, could you tell me where to find Jim Brass?"  
  
"Catherine Willows." The woman says, as we shake hands. "Are you the new trainee?"  
  
"No, I'm afraid not. I take it you don't know where Mr. Brass is either?"  
  
"Not at the moment. I was thinking to try his office myself." Catherine says, glancing around.  
  
"Oh, so you work here?"  
  
"Yeah. I could show you around the city, if you like."  
  
"That's okay." I mutter, looking around a bit more. "I'm just going to look around a bit, get to know the place." I say aloud to her, as I edge towards the corridor.  
  
"Sure, I'll see you around, Kira." Catherine says, and I turn and head off down the hall, taking notice of what's where.  
  
I soon come to a series of laboratories, only one has people in it - three men - at the moment, therefore only one holds my interest, the Trace Lab. "Excuse me, I'm looking for Jim Brass." I say a bit nervously as I approach the table they are all grouped around.  
  
"Should be in his office." The brunette man to my right says.  
  
`He's kind of cute.' I think silently as I quickly admire his muscular build, strong features and clear, blue eyes.  
  
"Nick Stokes, and you would be?" The same man says.  
  
"Kira Tyler, transfer from Los Angeles." I say, just slightly embarrassed that I'd forgotten something as simple as introducing myself.  
  
"You're from L.A.?" The tallest guy asks.  
  
"Yes and no, it's where I'm coming from this time."  
  
"Oh. I'm Warrick Brown." He says, as I quickly commit his name, blue eyes, dark complexion, and broad features to memory.  
  
"Nice to meet you." I say with as much pleasantness as I could muster. "So where is Mr. Brass's office?"  
  
"I'm heading there now, I'll show you." The third man says, looking up from his papers.  
  
"All right." I say, mentally shrugging, as he starts to walk out of the room. `My, my, what trouble I could get into with him.' I think silently, realizing that his blue eyes, curly, brown hair and vaguely Roman features draw a slightly better reaction from me than Nick's. "I'm sorry, I don't think I caught your name?"  
  
"Gil Grissom." He says, without stopping.  
  
"Oh. Pleasure to meet you, then, Mr. Grissom." I say, as he slows a bit, probably because he suddenly thinks that I'm struggling to keep pace.  
  
"Just Grissom, please."  
  
"Oh, as you like." I say, as he leads me on a bit further to an office and knocks on the door.  
  
"Come in." A gravelly, man's voice calls from within. Grissom gestures for me to go in first as he opens the door. "Are you the L.A. transfer?" A man behind a cluttered desk asks me.  
  
"Yes, Kira Tyler." I say, quickly losing patience with repeating my name five million times.  
  
"Jim Brass. Have a seat. Grissom, I wanted you in on this, too."  
  
"Is there a problem or is this just customary?" I ask, sitting down in a chair across the desk from him and to his left.  
  
"A little of both. You're coming in from Los Angeles, but you aren't originally from there, you aren't even originally from the United States." Brass says, drawing a bit of a smile from me. "Am I amusing you in some unintentional way, Mrs. Tyler?"  
  
"Yes, and its Ms. Tyler, if you insist on formality." I say.  
  
"All right, well, why is it not listed here?" Brass asks, closing a file.  
  
"Depends on what you're looking at. It never came up on my previous job, but it should be in with all my government papers. I was born and raised for the most part in Ayr, Australia."  
  
"I see. It's still a fairly impressive résumé, though." Brass says, tossing the file on top of his desk.  
  
"If you say so." I say, still somewhat amused.  
  
"Nineteen years pyrotechnical experience?" Brass says, still very un- amused.  
  
"Really? How old are you?" Grissom asks. "If you don't mind my asking." He adds as an afterthought, sounding almost embarrassed.  
  
"Thirty two. When I was thirteen it was pretty much `watch this and press that button on this mark`." I say, resisting the urge to start playing with his mind.  
  
"So you worked for a pyrotechnical company through collage and medical school? It says here that you attended Harvard collage and Harvard Med." Brass says, pulling my attention back to him.  
  
"Close. My father owns his own special effects company in New York City. He specialized in stunt work, graphics, makeup and pyrotechnics,"  
  
"Isn't that pretty much all of special effects?" Grissom asks, skeptically.  
  
"Yeah, but then again, directors have called him the best in the business. Anyway, I worked with him since I was about eight on stunt work, he started paying me for my help on everything else when I was about fifteen, and so I worked for him and took on another job at a corporate law firm while I was in med school."  
  
"Law degree?" Grissom asks, just as skeptically as before.  
  
"Receptionist." I answer just as matter-of-factly as I've answered all other questions. "And then I graduated in the top fifth percentile of my class."  
  
"So it's really Dr. Tyler. What was your specialty?" Brass asks.  
  
"I actually changed that drastically near the end of my internship from pediatric medicine to emergency surgery, so I had to re-do my internship." I say, deciding that I don't like Brass. `The way he speaks is too devoid of emotion for one with such beady little eyes.' I think to myself as I answer the uninterested man.  
  
"Why?" Grissom asks.  
  
"Well. because as much as I loved working with children in medicine, the people in emergency surgery seemed to be working with more children." I say.  
  
"So why did you quit?" Brass asks.  
  
"Because they gave me two choices; quit, or be fired. They were right to try and fire me, I admit, but I wasn't going to give this particular chief of staff the satisfaction of firing me, so I quit and told him off."  
  
"What did you do?" Grissom asks.  
  
"I decked a guy who had "accidentally" shot and killed his five year old daughter after her surgery, before they could arrest him." I say, getting a little angry at the memory, as they looked at me a bit stunned. "Broke one finger and dislocated another for my temper."  
  
"And you think this line of work is for you?" Brass asks deadpan.  
  
"I certainly hope so, otherwise I just wasted the last three years in L.A." I say, a bit more lightly. "I put in for a transfer because I heard this place has the best lab in the country."  
  
"Well, I can't disagree with you there." Brass says, leaning back in his chair. "Any special talents?"  
  
"I speak several languages fluently, work codes, and bring up graphic effects more quickly than most people I've worked with. And that's just what I think I might use on the job."  
  
"What do you mean `bring up graphics`?" Grissom asks.  
  
"I've done some minor graphic design for my father, bringing up graphics is just what he called putting them into effect."  
  
"Okay, and codes?" Brass asks.  
  
"I've also always been pretty good at decoding and translating things. Lingual translations are usually more my forte than computer codes."  
  
"All right, that's all we need. Welcome aboard." Brass says, extending a hand as we stand up.  
  
"You won't be disappointed." I say quite sincerely, as we shake hands. 


	2. Chapter 2

"Before I forget, do you have any medical problems we should know about?" Brass asks.  
  
"None at all." I say, rather curious.  
  
"Oh. Good. Grissom will show you where to get your identification." Brass says. I get the distinct impression that Grissom doesn't particularly like me as he throws a glance at Brass that seems to say "I will get you back" as I turn to leave.  
  
"This way." Grissom says, once we're back in the hall. "What languages do you think you'll need here?" He leads me off to his right.  
  
"I'll probably use Spanish and Latin most. Why?" I say as we approach a door marked `SECURITY`.  
  
"Just curious. What other languages do you speak?" Grissom asks as we go into the. empty security office.  
  
"Greek, Italian, French, Dutch and Maori." I say, glancing around for an adjoining room. "Isn't someone supposed to be here?"  
  
"Yeah." Grissom says, apparently as confused as I am.  
  
"Do you think anyone would notice if I typed up my own?" I joke, expecting a solid "yes, don't touch anything".  
  
"Do you know how to run the software?" Grissom asks in return, walking around the side of the desk.  
  
"Well. yeah." I say, rather taken aback.  
  
"Go ahead." Grissom says, pulling out the chair.  
  
"Are you serious?" I ask, honestly not sure if this guy's even remotely sane.  
  
"Of course." He says, looking at me as if I'd just grown an evil second head.  
  
"And Cord asked why I wanted to leave L.A." I mutter, as I go around the side of the desk and sit down in the office chair in front of the computer. It's already booted up, so I just set to work to find the right program file.  
  
"`Cord`?" Grissom asks, as he reads over my shoulder.  
  
"Short for Cordelia, she's a good friend of mine." I say, finding the right program and loading it.  
  
"How did you know her?" Grissom asks softly, as the program finishes loading and I start putting in my information.  
  
"We were neighbors. She was a private investigator who worked the same hours as I did. We just kept running into each other, so we became really good friends."  
  
"So you worked together?"  
  
"No, not really."  
  
"Oh, so she's your ex?"  
  
"What!?" I laugh. "No. No, but that may just explain some things."  
  
"Oh. What made her such a good friend, then?" Grissom asks.  
  
"Well, she was pretty much my only female friend in L.A." I say, still quite amused as I read over what I'd typed up. (It reads; "Name: Tyler, Kira. D.O.B.: 5/21/68. Place of Birth: Ayr, Australia. CSI Level: 3. Hair: Blonde. Eyes: Hazel (Gray-Blue-Green). Skin: Tanned. Height: 5' 2". Weight: 110 lbs." It proceeds to list my level of education, my collage and medical school, and a pre-ordained identification code.) I look to my left to say something to Grissom and have to suddenly jerk to my right on account of the fact that his head is so close to my shoulder I could turn my head and kiss his cheek. "Satisfactory?" I ask sarcastically.  
  
"Are you really five two?" Grissom asks, still staring at the screen.  
  
"In flats." I say, openly amused with myself finding myself staring at him.  
  
"You seem shorter."  
  
"How is that? I'm wearing two inch heels."  
  
"You need a photo." Grissom says, rather awkwardly changing the subject.  
  
"Camera?" I ask, as he straightens and steps back. He holds up a clumsy looking digital camera and hands it to me. I look it over, making sure the flash is on and the lens cap is off, then hand it back to him. He looks at me mildly confused. "Would you mind, please?" I ask sweetly.  
  
"Oh, sure." He says, and I step back against a portion of blank wall. "Ready?"  
  
"Yeah." I say, and he shoots the photograph. "All right, let's see." I plug the camera into the computer and load the picture. When everything appears to be in the right place I hit "print and laminate".  
  
"This isn't the first time you've printed out an id, is it?"  
  
"No, I had to do it in L.A. too." I say, as the thing stops printing and the laminated copy comes out. "So how 'bout you, Grissom? I'd hate to have to resort to hacking into the personnel files just to get to know something about you."  
  
"What would you like to know?" Grissom asks, as I find a rectangular hole punch and a little clippie thing.  
  
"Where are you from?"  
  
"Santa Monica."  
  
"Really? I lived there for about three years." I say as I clip the brand spanking new id onto my belt next to my beeper.  
  
"When?"  
  
"Take a wild guess." I say, smiling sarcastically.  
  
"Oh." Grissom says. "Done here?"  
  
"Yeah." I say as he opens the door and we leave the office. "So what are you into?"  
  
"Pardon?" Grissom asks, obviously shocked by my perceived bluntness.  
  
"Everyone has a specialty, I'm into pyrotechnics. What are you into?" I say, noticing that I'm pretty much permanently amused around this guy.  
  
"Entomology." Grissom says, leading me back towards the labs.  
  
"Hm." I say softly. "Wouldn't have thought."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"It just wouldn't have occurred to me. You used to be a coroner, right?"  
  
"What does that have to do with anything?" Grissom asks, stopping in his tracks.  
  
"Nothing, really, just a fact that sort of flitted through my mind." I say, he nods and continues to lead me towards. wherever he's leading me.  
  
`Well! Isn't he the sensitive one. Suppose I should have a bit of fun with him.` I think silently.  
  
"Hey, Gris'," Warrick calls from inside the open doorway of one of the offices, while he's on the phone. "I'm having a little problem."  
  
"What's up?" Grissom asks, as I follow him into the office.  
  
"Trying to order dinner from that new Greek place," Warrick begins to explain.  
  
"Oh, order some rabbit stew for me." Grissom says, about to walk away.  
  
"Would if I could, but I can't order." Warrick says.  
  
"What's the problem there?" I ask.  
  
"They only speak Greek." Warrick says uncertainly, as he and Grissom look at me questioningly.  
  
"May I try?" I ask, shaking off their doubt with a silent reminder to myself that I know nine different ways to ask for a taxicab.  
  
"Sure, this is the order." Warrick says, handing me a piece of scrap paper and the receiver.  
  
"Hello?" I say, switching seamlessly to Greek.  
  
"You call us, can't order correctly, and now you decide to speak proper Greek! How dare you!" A woman exclaims in Greek.  
  
"Actually, my friend doesn't speak Greek, but he was trying to do me a favor anyway. May I please order now?" I reply, still in Greek.  
  
"Yes, I just hope you tip well."  
  
"I'm sure that won't be a problem. We would like one order of dolmades, one order of mousaka, an order of kolokithika vrasta, an order of to fourno, and an order of stifado kounelle, please."  
  
"Four other people there and none could help your friend. Isn't that a kick in the pants. To drink?"  
  
"Yes, well, just a moment." I say. "Did you want drinks?" I ask Warrick, easily switching back to English as I covered the mouthpiece with my free hand.  
  
"Uh, no." Warrick says, hesitantly.  
  
"Nothing to drink." I say, switching back to Greek.  
  
"All right." The woman says.  
  
"Could you tell me what that comes to?" I ask, still speaking Greek.  
  
"Fifty four dollars and twenty five cents. Not too bad, really, for six people. Will that be delivery or pickup?"  
  
"Delivery."  
  
"All right, where are you?"  
  
"We're at the CSI Division, Las Vegas Police Department, out on North Troup Boulevard."  
  
"All right, and the name?"  
  
"Uh, Brown."  
  
"Brown? Okay, your order will be there in about an hour and fifteen."  
  
"Better than nothing. Thank you." I say, and she hangs up. "I really hope you're splitting this bill." I say once again in English as I hang up the receiver.  
  
"What did it come to?" Warrick asks, reluctantly.  
  
"Fifty four, twenty five."  
  
"Yep, glad we're splitting it." Warrick says, as Catherine walks into the room. "Where'd you learn to speak Greek like that?"  
  
"Who speaks Greek?" She asks. 


	3. Chapter 3

"Catherine Willows, Dr. Kira Tyler." Grissom says.  
  
"We met. Another Ph. D.?" Catherine asks, as we shake hands.  
  
"Not exactly. I used to be a trauma surgeon." I say.  
  
"What prompted the switch?" Warrick asks.  
  
"One incredibly bad incident accompanied by a slip of my temper." I say, hopefully making it clear that I don't want to talk of it.  
  
"So where did you learn Greek?" Catherine asks.  
  
"In Greece. My dad had work there when I was little and my mom thought it was a bad idea to go anywhere when you don't know the language at all, so since it was going to be a long job, we all learned Greek."  
  
"`All`?" Grissom asks.  
  
"Five brothers, five sisters." I say.  
  
"Whoa." Warrick says, failing to hide his amazement.  
  
"Big family." Catherine says, hiding her surprise a bit better, but still badly compared to Grissom, who simply raised an eyebrow.  
  
"Yeah. Anyhow, your food is supposed to be here in about an hour and a half." I say  
  
"Oh. Thanks." Warrick says.  
  
"No big." I say simply, shrugging a little. "Would rather like to get to work, though."  
  
"Right. Well, there's not much to do right now, so why don't you just walk around, get you bearings, and someone will come and find you when there's something to do." Catherine says, as I notice a look Warrick and Grissom share, as if Catherine does this all the time.  
  
"Right, can't blame me if I get lost then." I say, optimistically.  
  
"Yeah." Catherine says slowly, as I walk a bit slowly out of the room.  
  
"Dr. Tyler?" Grissom calls softly, as I'm halfway down the hall.  
  
"Yes?" I say, stopping and turning towards him. "Oh, it's Kira, please."  
  
"I was just wondering, would you mind accompanying me for a little while?" Grissom asks, approaching me slowly.  
  
"Wouldn't mind at all." I say, reading him like an open book for approximately the seventh time today - and hiding it well. "Where to?"  
  
"DNA Lab, this way." Grissom says, leading me further down the hall. I give Grissom a very covert second look as we head down to the lab and I can't help thinking that I could really.  
  
"Got your sample, waiting on the results now. Who's this?" A guy - younger and a bit taller than Grissom - says, snapping my attention back to reality.  
  
"Kira Tyler, transfer from L.A." I say, trying my best to be social to the guy who interrupted a rather entertaining daydream.  
  
"Greg Saunders, nice to meet you." He says, offering me his left hand to shake.  
  
"Likewise." I say as we shake hands.  
  
"Interesting accent. Where are you from?" Greg asks.  
  
"Australia, near the reefs." I say.  
  
"Oh, I would've guessed Manchester." Greg says, as Grissom looks over his lab results.  
  
"Really? Oh well." I say a bit amused.  
  
"Where's my chemical analysis?" Grissom asks.  
  
"Charlotte commandeered your samples." Greg says.  
  
"Oh." Grissom says thoughtfully. "Kira, would you mind Greg showing you around for a while?"  
  
"Not at all." I say, reminding myself that this is my first day and that I should treat minor things - such as being passed back and forth like a trading card - as precisely that - minor.  
  
"Find me if you have any problems." Grissom says, walking out of the room.  
  
"So, ah." Greg says a moment later, "what have you seen so far?"  
  
"Well, the lobby, Trace Lab, Brass's office, Security, and another office."  
  
"Oh. So how 'bout I show you to the Layout Room and then the Ballistics Lab?"  
  
"Sounds good."  
  
"After you." Greg says, gesturing to the door. "So how long have you been over here?"  
  
"About sixteen years. My family moved from Australia to Greece, from Greece to Italy, and from Italy to New York City." I say.  
  
"That must've been fun." Greg says sarcastically.  
  
"Yeah, once I learned the languages life got quite a lot easier." I say cheerfully.  
  
"How many languages do you speak?" Greg asks, apparently amused.  
  
"Seven, why?"  
  
"Curiosity. Can you list them all?"  
  
"Sure. Fluently it's Maori, Greek, Italian, Latin, French, Dutch, and Spanish."  
  
"You're kidding, right?" Greg asks, nearly laughing out loud.  
  
"Not at all." I say, amused. "Why?"  
  
"No reason." He says, regaining control of himself. "Why Latin?"  
  
"My mom called it a teenage obsession. I heard a bit somewhere, it interested me, and so I learned it. I was fourteen and it kept me out of trouble, so my parents didn't bother me about it."  
  
"No other languages?"  
  
"A few, but I tend to use what I'm most fluent in. Why, what languages do you speak?"  
  
"Nothing too popular. My grandfather was Norwegian and didn't speak much English."  
  
"Oh? I worked up in Oslo for a little while."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yeah. My mom and I were there for about six months, so she made me learn a little Norwegian."  
  
"So what does your mum do?" Greg asks, I giggle a bit before I can catch myself. "What?" He asks, smiling nervously.  
  
"I'm sorry, it's just that I haven't heard `mum` when referring to a mother in years. I just didn't expect to hear it." I say, sincerely apologetic.  
  
"What about when you talk to your own?" Greg asks, apparently quite relieved and amused.  
  
"She's mom, or ma. Whichever I feel like saying at the time." I say, with a slight shrug as we come to a stop outside a door.  
  
"Oh, well, we're here."  
  
"She's a linguist, by the way." I say, as we go into the Layout Room.  
  
"Oh, your mom? That must have been."  
  
"Certainly unique."  
  
"Really. Well this is Layout."  
  
"Not bad. Reminds me of my father's living room, really." I say, admiring the large table with the lit surface absentmindedly.  
  
"What does your father do?"  
  
"Special effects and stunt work, mostly for movies." I say, noticing Grissom walking by out of the corner of my eye.  
  
"Whoa." Greg says. "So you're already used to cleaning up after supposedly dead things."  
  
"For the most part. I'm also used to the weird in general." I say, as Grissom comes into the room and walks up to stand - silently - right behind Greg.  
  
"You'll need that working with Grissom. I mean, he may be a genius, but he is really"  
  
"Really what?" Grissom asks suddenly, startling Greg.  
  
"Really, uh. creative." Greg says, recovering quickly from the shock.  
  
"Or strange, take your pick." I say mischievously.  
  
"Oh. All right, uh. I don't have a car yet." I say, uncertainly.  
  
"Oh." Grissom says. "A call just came in, I'd like you with me on this one, Kira."  
  
"I thought so. Come on, I'll drive."  
  
"Okay. Nice meeting you, Greg." I say, as Grissom and I start to leave the room.  
  
"Likewise." Greg says, before I actually leave the room.  
  
"So what are we heading into, or won't we know until we get there?" I ask, as we hurry down the corridor.  
  
"Report said dead body in a bath tub."  
  
"Oh. Well, that's a change of pace for me." I say, as the warm Las Vegas air hits us as we walk out of the building. "Plain ol' dead body instead of a shootout."  
  
"How are they different?"  
  
"I used to always get called in with the paramedics, which I didn't really have a problem with unless the shooting wasn't done yet."  
  
"That's not going to happen here."  
  
"Obviously."  
  
"Should I take that as an insult or a compliment?" Grissom asks sarcastically.  
  
"I just meant that it seems like the crime lab and the police department have a much better understanding here." I say, smiling as he opens a passenger side door to a dark blue Ford Explorer.  
  
"This is from hearsay?" Grissom asks, after I get in, he closes the door, walks over to the driver's side very thoughtfully, and gets in.  
  
"More the fact that you don't seem to have cops and D.A.s breathing down your collective necks all day and night." I say, as he starts up the car and pulls out.  
  
"Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"  
  
"Grissom, I grew up with four older brothers, and my older sister is still a tomboy. I'm quite sure you can't offend me with a question." I say, smiling a bit crookedly.  
  
"Oh. Well, it occurs to me that you're, uh. you are, umm."  
  
"Really short, entirely too young, completely batty, what?" I ask, trying to be as polite as possible when interrupting just to screw with his head.  
  
"Young. I was just curious as to how you did all that you claim to have done?"  
  
"Oh, I suppose it's no great secret. I skipped through quite a lot of school, before collage."  
  
"So why have I never heard of you if you're such a prodigy?"  
  
"I've never been too fond of the press. What can I say, I get it from my mom."  
  
"So in what area are you such a prodigy?"  
  
"General sciences and languages."  
  
"No higher math?"  
  
"It wasn't my favorite subject, but I got past it."  
  
"So did MENSA ever try to recruit you?"  
  
"Not that I'm aware of." I say, uncertainly. "Do you mind if I ask your opinion on something, Grissom?" I ask, my curiosity shaking off my uncertainty quickly.  
  
"Uh," Grissom says softly, hesitantly. "Not at all."  
  
"I know that I'm. very unique, and I've come to accept it, but do I present myself as that"  
  
"Out of place? No. You seem to be very. confident."  
  
"Huh. Well I'm glad someone sees that, but I wasn't really going there. I was going to say peculiar."  
  
"Oh. Yeah."  
  
"Really? Hm. Thanks." I say, as we stop at a red light he looks over at me confused. "Always better to know these things."  
  
"I see." He says thoughtfully. "When did you see your first dead body?"  
  
"You are going to think I am the most screwed up girl because of my father."  
  
"Why? What did he do?" Grissom asks, his voice taking on a dark tone. I glance doubtfully at him, a look he catches as he makes a right-hand turn. "Try me."  
  
"I remember flying to New Zealand with my father and my brother to visit a morgue because my uncle needed new pictures to base his prosthetics on."  
  
"So your father wasn't into that aspect of special effects just yet?"  
  
"No, my uncle was working for my dad, but my uncle was the only one to think the photos were necessary."  
  
"That doesn't sound so strange."  
  
"I was five and my dad gave me a camera."  
  
"That's insane!" Grissom cries, looking over at me suddenly.  
  
"Grissom, road!" I say, as we begin to drift.  
  
"Sorry." He says, jerking us back into our own lane.  
  
"No big. I never said it wasn't insane. It didn't bother me in the least, but my mom still gave him hell when we got home."  
  
"What rule allows a person in New Zealand to just walk into a morgue and start taking photographs?"  
  
"Unclaimed body."  
  
"Who gives a five-year-old a camera - genius or not?"  
  
"My father?" I ask jokingly, he glances at me incredulously. "Hey, don't look at me like that. He had taught me how to shoot a camera before that."  
  
"What gave him that bright idea?"  
  
"I'm not sure, my memory doesn't go back that far, but knowing my father I probably swiped his camera once and just started playing with it."  
  
"So he taught you how to use it. That makes sense."  
  
"Which is strange because my family doesn't usually make any sense to other people."  
  
"It must seem to most people a miracle that you survived your childhood."  
  
"It's a distinct possibility." I say, as Pink Floyd starts to play on the radio. "Could I switch the song, please?"  
  
"You don't like Pink Floyd?"  
  
"Actually, I do, but this song just seems to be fairly bad luck for me."  
  
"How so?"  
  
"Well, the first time I heard it my dog was hit by a mail truck."  
  
"And the last time?"  
  
"I was in a car wreck. Both of the driver's legs were broken from just above the knee along with one hip, and I had a penetrating fracture to my right arm."  
  
"You can't tell." Grissom says, flipping the radio station and glancing at my arm. "How long ago was that?"  
  
"About a year ago. I've been avoiding that song like the plague ever since."  
  
"So you're fairly superstitious."  
  
"Well, sort of. I believe in the proven ones, anyway."  
  
"Which means?"  
  
"Hmmm?"  
  
"What superstitions are true?"  
  
"Oh. A candle in a window is bad luck, people have tampered with Halloween candy, every one has a pre-ordained lucky number, things like that."  
  
"Wait, what makes that last one true?"  
  
"I've never lost a bet when I've bet on multiples of six, and my friends have always won on their numbers, too."  
  
"So what's my number?"  
  
"What's your birth date?"  
  
"August seventeenth, fifty six."  
  
"Hmmm." I say, thinking on it a bit. "Try one or ten next time."  
  
"This is the address." He says, pulling into a broad driveway of a rather large, run-down house with white and gray peeling paint. 


	4. Chapter 4

"Here's to hoping that my father doesn't get arrested this time." I say as Grissom checks the kits thoroughly.  
  
"What?" He says, looking up from the jars of dusting powders he was counting.  
  
"When I started working at the L.A. C.S.U. my father called in a prank call, which was responded to, on my first day."  
  
"Is he supposed to be in Las Vegas now?"  
  
"No, but he would have a really good excuse if he was. He's in Cascade, Montana right now, as far as I know."  
  
"Well, that can't really be important right now."  
  
"Right. We've got a vic. So let's get in there." I say, as he closes the kits and we get out of the car. "Huh, I think my sister lives near here."  
  
"Is she going to be a distraction?"  
  
"Heather? Not unless she's involved." I say, and Grissom turns to look back at me suspiciously. "Hey, there's more chance that my older sister left something out and accidentally scared someone into calling the cops."  
  
"If your family's involved at all." Grissom says, as a guy with brown hair and a bad tie starts over towards us.  
  
"Precisely."  
  
"What do you have?" Grissom asks the guy.  
  
"We aren't really sure. Housekeeper found a dead body in a tub full of ice"  
  
"And let me guess; blood everywhere, a surgical tray, and a pair of kidneys in a cooler."  
  
"You've seen this before?" The guy with the tie asks, apparently suspicious.  
  
"Sort of." I say, as a cop brings out the cooler. "Hey, hold up a second." I call to him gesturing for him to bring it here.  
  
"What is it?" Grissom asks, as I put on a latex glove.  
  
"Playing a hunch." I say, as the cop approaches. "Hey, how ya' doin'?"  
  
"Pretty eager to put this down, actually." He says, as I check the tags and start to grin.  
  
"What?" Grissom asks, frowning deeply.  
  
"`Two kidneys, AB +, Human`" I read aloud from one side. "`On loan from Las Vegas Yale division of Harvard Medical. Don't squish the pea. Prop. FX, New York City, New York."  
  
"What's all that supposed to mean?" The cop asks.  
  
"It means you've been wasting time." I tell him. "I'm going to make sure nothing's really - "  
  
"What in the nine bloody hells do you think you're doing with that!?" A very familiar male voice thunders from across the other side of the yard.  
  
"Wrong." I finish, as he storms over to us, I realize Grissom is quite effectively hiding me, probably subconsciously.  
  
"I agreed to transport those from one end of town to another, and if they are no longer viable because of any of you, your asses are mine." He booms at the three men, slight spittle spraying the guy in the bad tie - which's name I still haven't caught. "Hi, Kira."  
  
"Hi, dad." I say, stepping out from behind Grissom.  
  
"Did anyone do anything to them?" He asks, more calmly this time.  
  
"Don't think so." I say, looking the kidneys over in the cooler. "Grissom, this is Rollie Tyler, and I'll see you guys later." I hand the re-sealed cooler to Grissom, step over the cop who had done fell out when my father had started yelling, and head into the house.  
  
"What was all the commotion?" Catherine asks, as she dusts a shelf for fingerprints.  
  
"My dad had been using this place as a set."  
  
"What!?" Catherine cries, nearly dropping her dusting powder.  
  
"I'm checking if this was a complete waste of - oh, damn it."  
  
"What's wrong?" Grissom asks, coming in behind me.  
  
"Nothing. My mom's just going to pitch a fit like never before." I say, carefully examining apiece of what used to be a large coffee mug. "An you thought my dad was bad."  
  
"Why's your mom going to pitch a fit?" Grissom asks.  
  
"This used to be a mug my eldest brother made when he was little."  
  
"Anything else broken?" Catherine asks.  
  
"There's some splatter over here." Grissom calls from another room.  
  
"We're on location of a horror movie. Blood's probably fake."  
  
"Probably?" Catherine asks, just a bit stunned.  
  
"Once there were these two little sixteen year old, future residents of Riker's who snuck on set after hours and killed a dog."  
  
"Ewhh." Catherine says.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"What's the tell?" Grissom asks.  
  
"The easy cleanup." I say, peeling off a speck. "It doesn't have a scent to it, and the color doesn't change as it dries, actually." I tell them in response to their glares.  
  
"Does your father usually shoot holes in the walls?" Grissom asks admiring one that looks like it was made by something traveling the same trajectory it would've taken to annihilate that mug.  
  
"My dad doesn't own a gun. Doesn't like 'em." I say, looking around the rest of the room as I go over to Grissom. "Whoa."  
  
"Anyone on the crew like flash?" Catherine asks, referring to the Desert Eagle - one of not-many guns that would leave a hole of that size.  
  
"All of 'em, but when it comes to firepower, it depends on the director." I tell her.  
  
"How, exactly, is it up to the director?" Grissom asks, as I head back towards the door.  
  
"Hey, Rol'!" I yell from the front door to my father, who is checking out the contents of a blue sports car parked across the street. "Come 'ere!"  
  
"What's up?" Rollie asks, jogging onto the porch.  
  
"The movie, the producers gun friendly?" I ask.  
  
"Not even close. Why?"  
  
"Kira," Grissom calls from inside, "we have a body."  
  
"A real one this time?" Rollie calls in return, as I go in to find Grissom.  
  
"You tell us." Catherine says to him, as he passes her while following me.  
  
"Rollie Tyler, Catherine Willows, and oh, look, my theory flies."  
  
"What?" Catherine asks, overhearing my latest mumblings.  
  
"Never mind her, she's just a bit goofy 'cause she said something like this would happen." Rollie tells her, as we come into the room where Grissom found the corpse.  
  
What we found surprised me only in the fact that it had been overlooked. Blood and bits of flesh are everywhere, thanks to the literally bloody blender, I suppose. The man's head is gone, so that's the first thing I inspect.  
  
"Careful." Catherine warns, as I step over pools of blood.  
  
"You do realize this isn't my daughter's first case, righ'?" Rollie asks her, as Grissom goes to get his camera.  
  
"I'm very good at not disturbing things, Catherine." I say, crouching down near the neck to get a better look. "Surgical decaps are rare even in Las Vegas, right?"  
  
"Well, seein's how I've seen pretty much everything, and still haven't seen one, I'd say yeah." Catherine says.  
  
"You have now. The amputation of the hands and feet look surgical, as well." Rollie tosses in, and Catherine looks at him oddly. "What? I do my research."  
  
"I'll bet." Catherine mumbles under her breath.  
  
"Coroner's right behind me." Grissom informs us, re-entering the room with his camera in hand. "Mr. Tyler, the police would like a word."  
  
"Of course." Rollie says as he turns to go. "Oh, ah. the guy's name is Lewis Troi, I can tell by the tattoo on his collarbone. He was a new stunt man I was training, I don't know much else about him, but I'll give the cops his number and his wife's name. Hope some of that helps."  
  
"Is he going to be a problem, Kira?" Grissom asks, after photos of the body have been taken.  
  
"Rollie, a distraction? No! If anything he could turn out as an asset." I say easily moving around the room, gathering evidence and forming speculation.  
  
"How's that?" Grissom asks quietly, not even looking up.  
  
"He's got a history of working with the N.Y.P.D. as sort of an unofficial extension to their C.S.U." I say smiling a little as I find one of my dad's little inside jokes.  
  
"And we're back to how?" Catherine asks.  
  
"All right, an old buddy of his, Leo, was a detective who used to ask for his help, undercover and surveillance mostly, but when he was murdered during an operation, my dad refused to not work on the case. So now, my dad helps the detective who took Leo's case, Mira, whenever. I guess technically its interference, but he never got in the way enough to really screw over a case."  
  
"Oh." Catherine mutters.  
  
"Hey, it's a good to go, give it a shot." I say easily.  
  
"I don't think that'll be necessary." Catherine says, off handedly.  
  
"Why?" Grissom asks.  
  
"Why what?" Catherine asks in return a short moment later.  
  
"Why should we ask him for help?" Grissom asks.  
  
"Well, it may not be necessary, but it is kind of fun." I say, recalling some of the cases we'd worked on together.  
  
"What's his specialty?" Grissom asks, recalling how I'd asked him earlier.  
  
"I don't know anymore, it used to be disguises, and before that it was general surveillance equipment."  
  
"I meant for forensic investigation." Grissom says, slightly annoyed.  
  
"I know. You should see him pick apart a surveillance tape."  
  
"Oh." Grissom says, switching to ever so slight surprise, as a very familiar blonde woman walks very carefully into the room.  
  
"Hey! Excuse me, this is - " Catherine says, before the woman turns to face her.  
  
"I know this is a crime scene, but someone asks for the security chip, I get the damn chip." She snaps at Catherine. There is no mistaking the resemblance; Catherine had recognized her as quickly as Grissom was, - as he turns to see what the disruption was, - as my sister.  
  
"Catherine Willows, Gil Grissom, Angela Tyler." I say. "Hey, Ang'."  
  
"Hey Kira." Angie says, picking her way around the room.  
  
"You have watch on the van tonight, right?" I ask, tossing the hidden surveillance unit to her.  
  
"Yeah, why?" Angie says, taking the disguise off the unit.  
  
"Wanna show 'em?" I ask.  
  
"Sure, just get a go." Angela says, carefully heading out to the porch, disguise in one hand, recording unit in the other.  
  
"Who wants to see something?" I ask Catherine and Grissom.  
  
"Sure." Grissom says, moving towards me as I move towards the door.  
  
"I'm gonna stay here." Catherine says.  
  
"Later, then." I call to her, just before I reach the door. "Hey, erm. sorry, no one introduced us earlier,"  
  
"Detective Cyrus Lockwood." The guy with the bad tie tells me.  
  
"Ah, Kira Tyler. Now, mind if I show you something quickly?"  
  
"All right." Det. Lockwood says slowly, as I wave Angie back over.  
  
"To the van." I tell her. "This'll be interesting." I mutter to Grissom, as we follow Angie to the big, black van that my dad works out of about 65% of the time.  
  
Angie climbs into the back of the van, sets the surveillance unit on a counter, lets us in through the front doors, and pulls the office chair out of its low cabinet. "All right, Ang', go with it."  
  
"Right, here's what we got: instead of everything being simply taped - "  
  
"By mere mortals, as Rol' says." I interject jokingly.  
  
"It's all stored on memory chips. Now, since Rollie doesn't really believe in waste - time, space, energy, material, - we don't always put in a new chip for every project, choosing instead to just open a new file."  
  
"One chip can hold up to eight months of footage. That's why there's two in every unit." I tell Grissom and Lockwood.  
  
"Not so. Now, since Rol's so good misplacing things, and I'm so good at finding them, we've upped the storage capacity and linked things up. So, now we've got two chips that record thirteen months, one that records for seven, and, all the data, no matter what project, gets sent to a high- security file in our mainframe in New York." Angie says, and I nod. "Questions?"  
  
"How is this better than tape?" Lockwood asks.  
  
"Tape eventually breaks down, by storing things digitally, we can store more and keep it longer. Plus, the image is better." I say, as Angie finishes connecting everything.  
  
"With normal digital footage, you would have to sit through five minutes of irrelevant footage at the least. With this, though, you can simply put in a approximate time, hit enter, and watch what happened."  
  
"Let's try two and a half hours ago." Grissom says, leaning in to watch the screen more closely, as I pull out the spare screens for Detective Lockwood and I.  
  
"We can get more precise." Angie suggests, as the program finishes loading.  
  
"Let's start out at 2.5, Ang'." I say impatiently.  
  
"All right." She says, typing in the time, date, and a code I didn't quite catch.  
  
Immediately, we're watching with great interest - the exact same thing we had been looking at five minutes ago.  
  
"Okay, who wants to snag the coroner before he leaves?" I ask, seeing no change in events forthcoming.  
  
"I'll get him." Lockwood says, swerving around to get to the door, as Grissom looks at me, apparently quite annoyed that that would be my second choice of action.  
  
"Better safe than sorry, but while we're waiting, Kira, pick a number." Angie says, putting in the same date and code - which I figure now as a location code, - and waiting for me to give her a time.  
  
"Let's go three hours before now." I guess.  
  
"Wouldn't be, we had only wrapped at eight fifteen." Angie says, punching in my time anyway.  
  
"Hey, Robbins puts time of death at eight thirty." Lockwood says, climbing back into the van.  
  
"Then watch this." Angie says, as she hits enter. 


End file.
